


The Guitar at the Pawn Shop

by quirklesshufflepuff



Category: Guy Clark - American Singer/Songwriter
Genre: Gen, Not Beta Read, Supernatural Elements, based on a Guy Clark song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27306358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirklesshufflepuff/pseuds/quirklesshufflepuff
Summary: Ever since Mike heard the story about the beat-up old guitar that most people couldn't see from his granny, he wanted to be the one to meet the stranger who claimed he was coming back.
Kudos: 1





	The Guitar at the Pawn Shop

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based off of a song called "The Guitar" by Guy Clark, please feel free to listen to it before or after reading this.
> 
> Also, I didn't tag character death because it isn't described and the whole point is the story takes place over a man's lifetime, but I wanted to mention it here just to be safe.

Mike was five years old the first time he noticed the guitar at his Granny’s pawn shop. It was on display on top of its case on the highest shelf right in the middle of the wall, behind the register. Mike was old enough to know that items behind the counter were Big Deal items, like the colorful vase he wasn’t allowed to touch and the shotgun that he definitely wasn’t allowed to touch. But the guitar seemed out of place, it was beat up and old looking, as was the case. It looked nothing like the sleek black electric guitar they had had a few months ago. The weirdest part to him was the lack of a price tag. Mike tugged at his mom’s sleeve to get her attention before pointing at the strange guitar. “Mama, it’s missing its price tag,” he said, wanting to be helpful.

His mom looked around at the wall of Big Deal items for a moment before frowning, “Which one is missing a tag?”

“That guitar,” Mike replied, pointing harder at it.

“Mikey, that guitar was sold last month, it was already gone the last time we were here, remember?” his mom tried to explain.

Now it was Mike’s turn to frown, “No, not that one,  **_that_ ** one! The one on the top shelf!”

“Honey, there’s no guitar here right now. Are you feeling alright? Do you have a fever?” his mom fussed over him for a minute before deciding he was fine, “Why don’t you go say hi to Granny while I take this food to the back, okay?”

Mike nodded then ran over to where his granny was dusting and greeted her with a hug, making her laugh as she ran her fingers through his hair. She bent down so she could be at eye level with him before speaking, “Michael, you can see that old guitar up there, can’t you?” Mike’s eyes went wide then looked back and forth between the guitar and his granny a few times as she smiled softly at him. “That’s what I thought,” she kissed his forehead then stood up and went back to dusting.

Still confused, he tugged at her apron, “How come Mama said it wasn’t there?”

His granny hummed thoughtfully, “That’s because it’s a special guitar. I’ll tell you the whole story when you’re older.”

While it didn’t satisfy Mike’s curiosity, he knew better than to try and complain. He left his granny’s side to wander the shop a little before his mom was ready to leave. Mike looked at the guitar one last time than at his granny, who winked, before he walked out holding his mom’s hand.

Over the years the guitar became a fascination, it was always the first thing Mike looked at when he entered the shop and it was the last thing he looked at before leaving. He could even see it through the window whenever he was just passing by. It never moved or changed in any way, but his eyes were always drawn to it. Mike was sixteen and working part-time at the pawn shop when he finally worked up the nerve to ask his granny about the strange guitar that apparently no one else could see. They were working the closing shift together one night and it had been a slow day. “Hey Granny, are you ever going to tell me the story about that thing?” Mike asked, gesturing to the highest shelf behind the register.

She hummed in response as she finished writing out the daily report before looking up at him. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask about it again,” she said as she got out of her chair and walked behind the register. His granny was barely five feet tall and had to use a step ladder to get the guitar down. Mike rushed over to help, but she was as fast and strong as she ever was, and she handed him the guitar as soon as he got close.

Mike had never touched it before and now he kind of wished he never had. The guitar felt eerie, like he was holding a sleeping animal instead of a wooden instrument. Furthermore, despite its apparent age and slight damages, the strings and pegs seemed to be in good condition. Mike was fairly tone-deaf and had no music ability, but he awkwardly tried to hold the guitar and strum it lightly. It sounded to him like it was in tune despite the fact that before today he had never seen anyone touch it, let alone tune it. The longer he held it, the more he felt like something was starting to awaken and he quickly put it back on top of its case.

“I don’t much like touching it either,” his granny said from behind him.

He turned back towards her, wiping his hands on his pants as though he could rid himself of the feeling of the guitar that easily, “What in the Sam Hill is that thing?”

She offered a soft smile, “Truth be told, I’m not really sure. One day, back when your granddaddy and I were newly wed and this shop was just starting off, I was working the closing shift by myself when a stranger walked in. Now back then, we knew just about all the folks in town and didn’t get much in the way of travelers, so he stuck out. I tried greetin’ him, but he didn’t seem to hear me, just walked up to the counter and asked if he could get a few dollars in exchange for that guitar. I agreed, and began to write it up. When I handed him the money, he told me that he’d be back for it, and in that instant, I believed him and I put it in the back with the proper tag.

In those days, your granddaddy wanted to handle managin’ all the inventory, and I had forgotten all about the guitar until a few months later when he was on a fishin’ trip with his brothers. I went to retrieve an item that had been repaid and I saw that old case gatherin’ dust. Workin’ the shop alone meant I was too busy to give it much thought, but later that night I pulled that case out and noticed the name plate was blank. I almost thought maybe it was a different guitar because I would have sworn there was a name on there when I took it. You’ve held it now, so you know that there’s no mistakin’ it. 

The part I couldn’t understand was why it was still in the back when I had only written up our standard 30 day loan, so when your granddaddy got back, I asked why we weren’t sellin’ the guitar. Imagine my surprise when he said that we didn’t have any guitars in our inventory. I tried to show him, but much like when you tried to show your mom, he didn’t see anything. I can’t tell you why I didn’t try to just pick it up and put it in his face like I wanted to, but I always froze when I got too close with the intent to show it to someone,” she reached up to touch the guitar, as if to prove to herself it was still real.

“What about the record books? Wouldn’t he have noticed that something wasn’t right with the inventory? It should also have the stranger’s name, we can look him up!” Mike got excited by that idea, it was easier these days to find someone than it had been 50 years ago.

Granny unlocked the filing drawer beneath the register, pushed all the files to the side, and pulled out a book that seemed to be hiding under them. She quickly found the page she was looking for and slid it over to Mike. She didn’t even need to point out what she wanted him to see, among the rows of Granny’s neat and precise handwriting was one line that looked smudged beyond legibility. “But how?” was all Mike could ask.

“I don’t think we’ll ever know, heaven only knows why this guitar was brought here or you and I are the only ones who can see it. But I don’t think that I will ever see that stranger again, I think you’ll be the one to see it’s final end or maybe pass the story down to one of your own grandkids who will also be able to see it. Michael,” she reached out and grabbed his hand, making him look at her, “Promise me that you’ll take over the shop when I retire, keep it goin’ at least until someone comes for that guitar.”

“I will, Granny, I promise,” Mike said easily, after that story he really hoped that he would be the one to see the strange guitar’s conclusion.

His granny patted the side of his face, “You were always such a good boy, I know this shop and that guitar will be in good hands. Now, let’s close up and we can grab dinner before headin’ home.” She made her way to the front door to lock it and flip the sign to closed as Mike began to count the till, all the while feeling as though he was being watched, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know who or what it was.

Mike kept his promise to take over just a few years later, although his granny was still a frequent presence in the shop until her death. At first Mike was worried that his parents or uncle would resent him for being the one to inherit the family business, but he only ever sensed relief at the matter. In those days, he used to plan out what he would say when someone would finally come into the shop and ask about the guitar or daydream about what they could look like, would it be a man? Or a woman? Someone in between or neither? Would they be more of a punk rocker or maybe bluegrass? Would they even speak English? Or be human for that matter if it was the same person that came into the shop over 50 years ago? He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of a withered old vampire-esque person coming into the shop, but it did give him something to think about to pass the time when he was alone in the shop.

And Mike had a lot of time to think about it as the years passed. He did have a life outside of the shop, he had gotten married and together they had 3 children, none of whom ever showed any sign of being able to see the guitar. He never did touch the guitar after that first time, almost afraid to wake it up. As he got older, he wondered what would happen if he tried to place a price tag on it, maybe it would invite the stranger back. The first time, he listed the price as $3 since that’s what it had originally been pawned for. But the next day when he opened the shop, the tag was gone. Not fallen to the floor or moved, but completely gone. He waited a few more weeks, then made a tag for $3,000, only for the tag to be gone the next morning. Mike tried one last time, almost a month later, and made an outrageous tag for $3,000,000. But he was met with the same result. After that, he tried to put the guitar out of his mind despite the fact his eyes were still always drawn to it when it was slow.

Mike’s kids had grown up and were now trying to get him to retire, but he refused. He had promised to keep the shop going until someone came for the guitar and he intended to do that or at least wait until someone else could see it and he could pass the shop onto them. As the years went on, he began to believe that the latter option was the most likely, or maybe no one was ever coming for it. It had been in the shop for close to a century at this point and defied all logic, it didn’t look anymore beat up or aged than it did when Mike first noticed it, all those years ago. Occasionally he thought about just burning the damned thing and being done with it, but if there was an afterlife, he didn’t want to have to face his granny and admit what he’d done to the guitar she had entrusted him with. So, Mike continued to wait and watched his own grandkids every time they came into the shop for any sign that they too could see it.

It was an afternoon in the middle of the week when a man that Mike didn’t recognize walked in, which wasn’t unheard of, but most of his business these days are the regulars that he knows by name. Mike was about to greet him when he realized what the man was looking at and froze. The stranger sauntered up and asked “What do you want for that piece of junk?” as he gestured at the guitar.

Mike almost felt giddy and couldn’t keep a smile off of his face, in all of his youthful imaginings, he had never expected to hear that. He reached up and grabbed the guitar, the eerie feeling instantly familiar despite the decades since he last held it and handed it to the stranger. “You tell me what it’s worth, you’re the one who wants it. Tune it up, play a song, and let’s just see what haunts it,” he heard himself say and wasn’t entirely sure if it was voluntary.

The stranger started to strum softly, as Mike sat down on a stool to watch. Just like it had been when he had tried, the guitar was still tuned and needed no adjustments. But unlike with Mike, this man’s playing sounded like actual music. After a couple of beats, Mike could feel the guitar waking up from across the counter and could see the look of surprise on the man’s face as the music took a sudden turn. It became fast, fast enough that the stranger’s fingers seemed to blur, but the music, the music wasn’t just good, it was great, and nothing like anything else Mike had ever heard. He was enthralled, he knew he was witnessing something that was probably supernatural, but he wasn’t afraid. He sat there listening as the rest of the world seemed to fade away.

It was dark when the stranger finally set the guitar on the counter, Mike could see his hands were shaking and he was breathing hard, like he just went for a long run. The man was staring at the instrument in awe, and maybe a little in fear. Mike forced himself to stand and blurted out the question that had been on his mind since his granny told him the story, “Where in the hell you been? I’ve been waiting all these years for you to stumble in.” Without waiting for a response, Mike took down the dusty case and set it on the counter, pausing only for a moment as he looked at the name now engraved on the case. “Go on, pack it up. You don’t owe me nothing,” Mike paused for another moment, trying to will away the lump that started to form in his throat, then added, “Good luck.” 

The stranger, no, Guy Clark, looked at Mike in slight confusion at the last bit, but when the case closed, it turned to shock. Guy looked back up at him and Mike nodded once. Hands still shaking, he grabbed the case and walked out of the shop without looking back. Mike watched until he was gone from view, then took down a bottle of whiskey and 2 glasses that he had hidden behind the guitar long ago. He poured a couple fingers in both and raised his own glass in a silent toast to the promise he kept. 

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this back when I still worked 3rd shift, so like two and half years ago? And just recently came across my notes for this, along with the very beginning already written and I wanted to finish it. I've been playing this story out in my head for close to a decade, whenever I hear the song. I feel like with every fic I write, they become more and more self indulgent. Like no one asked for this, I'm not even sure anyone will read this but me, although I have realized that I am my own target audience, so there's that. However if you did read this and liked it but found yourself thinking "you know what this story really needs? More magic, and murder, and witches from 2 different series, preferably lesbian witches, and an exhausted Latino detective who really doesn't get paid enough for this shit." Then ho boy, do I have the fic for you. I mean, it's not written yet, but I do have a rough outline and a vague sense of where it's going. I'll try to remember to link it when I start it. If you didn't think that, well I don't blame you, but I do hope that you enjoyed this short fic and the song it's based off of.


End file.
